The Gentleman Bastard Series (147 page)

“We’ve traded cabins,” she said gruffly. “I’ve got your old compartment, and you can have mine.”

“What?
What
? Why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before the Vadran could ask any more questions, Treganne had clambered over the side and Zamira had taken him by the arm.

“What sort of bid will the Shipbreaker open with for her?”

“Two silvers and a cup of cowpox scabs,” said Gwillem.

“Yes, but what can I reasonably talk him up to?”

“Eleven or twelve hundred solari. He’s going to need two new topgallant masts, as the fore was sprung as well. It just didn’t come down. New yards, some new sails. She’s had work done recently, and that’s a help, but a look at her timbers will show her age. She’s got maybe ten years of use left in her.”

“Captain Drakasha,” said Locke, stepping up beside Gwillem. “If I may be so bold—”

“This scheme you were talking about, Ravelle?”

“I’m sure I can squeeze at least a few hundred more solari out of him.”

“Ravelle?” Gwillem frowned at him. “Ravelle, the former captain of the
Red Messenger
?”

“Delighted to meet you,” said Locke, “and all I need to borrow, Captain, are some better clothes, a few leather satchels, and a pile of coins.”

“What?”

“Relax. I’m not going to spend them. I just need them for show. And you’d better let me have Jerome as well.”

“Captain,” said Gwillem, “why is Orrin Ravelle alive and a member of the crew and asking you for money?”

“Del!” hollered Drakasha.

“Right here,” she said, appearing a moment later.

“Del, take Gwillem aside and explain to him why Orrin Ravelle is alive and a member of the crew.”

“But why is he asking you for money?” said Gwillem. Ezri grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.

“My people expect to be paid for the
Messenger
,” said Drakasha. “I need to be sure whatever you’re scheming won’t actually make things worse.”

“Captain, in this matter I’d be acting
as
a member of your crew—lest you forget, I have a share of what we get for the
Messenger
, too.”

“Hmmm.” She looked around and tapped her fingers on the hilt of one of her sabers. “Better clothes, you say?”

10

THE SHIPBREAKER’S agents, primed by rumors from the night before, were swift to spot the new sail in Prodigal Bay. At the fifth hour of the afternoon, an ornate barge rowed by banks of slaves pulled alongside the
Red Messenger
.

Drakasha waited to receive the occupants of the barge with Delmastro, Gwillem, and two dozen armed crewfolk. First up the side was a squad of guards, men and women sweating beneath armor of boiled leather and chain. Once they’d swept the deck with their eyes, a team of slaves leapt aboard and rigged lines to haul a hanging chair from barge to ship. Sweating furiously, they strained to heave this chair and its occupant up to the entry port.

The Shipbreaker was exactly as Drakasha remembered. An old, paperskinned Therin so distended with fat that it looked as though he’d popped his seams and his viscous flesh was pouring out into the world around him. His jowls ended somewhere below the middle of his neck, his fingers were like burst sausages, and his wattles had so little firmament behind them
they quivered when he blinked. He managed to rise from his chair, with the help of a slave at either hand, but he didn’t look remotely comfortable until another slave produced a wide lacquered shelf, a sort of portable table. This was set before him, and he heaved his massive belly atop it with a groan of relief.

“A limping brig,” he said to no one in particular. “One t’gallant mast gone and the other one fit for firewood. Somewhat aged. A lady whose fading charms are ill concealed by recent layers of paint and gilt.
Oh
. Forgive me, Zamira. I did not see you standing there.”

“Whereas I felt the ship heel over the instant you came aboard,” said Drakasha. “She was tough enough to pull through a summer’s-end storm even in the hands of an incompetent. Her lines are clean, topgallant masts are cheap, and she’s sweeter by far than most of the heaps you haul to the east.”

“Heaps procured for me by captains like yourself. Now, I’ll want to peek under her breeches and see if she has any quim left to speak of. Then we can discuss the size of the favor I’ll be doing you.”

“Pose all you like, old man. I’ll have a fair price for a fair ship.”

“Fair she is,” said Leocanto Kosta, choosing that moment to emerge from his lurking place within the companionway. The
Orchid
’s little store of fine clothing had furnished him with a veneer of wealth. His mustard-brown coat had cloth-of-silver cuffs, his tunic was unstained silk, his breeches were passable, and his shoes were polished. They were also large enough for a man of Jerome’s build, but Kosta had stuffed them with rags to help them fit. One couldn’t have everything.

A borrowed rapier hung from his belt, and several of Zamira’s rings gleamed on his fingers. Behind him came Jerome, dressed as the Dutiful Manservant of Common Demeanor, carrying three heavy leather satchels over his shoulder. The speed with which they’d assumed these roles led Zamira to infer they’d used them elsewhere.

“M’lord,” said Drakasha. “Have you finished your inspection?”

“I have. And, as I said, fair. Not excellent, but hardly a deathtrap. I can see fifteen years in her, with a bit of luck.”

“Who the fuck might you be?” The Shipbreaker regarded Kosta with eyes like a bird suddenly confronted by a rival’s beak just as it’s about to seize a worm.

“Tavrin Callas,” said Kosta. “Lashain.”

“A peer?” asked the Shipbreaker.

“Of the Third. You don’t need to use my title.”

“Nor will I. Why are you sniffing around this ship?”

“Your skull must be softer than your belly. I’m angling to buy her from Captain Drakasha.”

“
I
am the one who buys ships in Prodigal Bay.”

“By what, the writ of the gods? I’m in funds and that’s all that signifies.”

“Your funds won’t help you swim, boy—”

“Enough,”
said Drakasha. “Until one of you pays for it, this is my ship you’re standing on.”

“You’re very far from home, pup, and you cross me at your—”

“You want this ship, you pay full weight of metal for it,” Drakasha seethed, her irritation genuine. The Shipbreaker was powerful and useful, but in a contest of sheer force any Brass Sea captain could crush him beneath their heel. Lack of competition led him to presume too much upon the patience of others. “If Lord Callas tenders the best offer, I’ll take it from him. Are we through being foolish?”

“I’m prepared to buy my ship,” said Kosta.

“Now hold it, Captain,” said Delmastro on cue. “We know the Shipbreaker can pay. But we’ve yet to see the lordship’s coin.”

“Del’s right,” said Drakasha. “We use letters of credit to wipe our asses down here, Lord Callas. You’d best have something heavy in those bags.”

“Of course,” said Kosta, snapping his fingers. Jerome stepped forward and dropped one satchel on the deck at Drakasha’s feet. It landed with a jangling clink.

“Gwillem,” she said, motioning him forward. He crouched over the satchel, unbound its clasps, and revealed a pile of gold coins—in actuality, a combination of Zamira’s ship’s purse and the funds Leocanto and Jerome had brought to sea. Gwillem lifted one, held it up to the sunlight, scratched it, and bit it. He nodded.

“The real thing, Captain. Tal Verrar solari.”

“Seven hundred in that bag,” said Kosta, which was the cue for Jerome to throw the second one down on the deck beside it. “Seven hundred more.”

Gwillem unclasped the second satchel, allowing the Shipbreaker to see that it, too, was apparently brimming with gold. At least it was for five or six layers of solari above a silk pocket filled with silvers and coppers. The third satchel was as much a sham, but Zamira hoped that Kosta wouldn’t have to make his point again.

“And from that,” said Leocanto, “I’ll give you one thousand to commence.”

“The edges of his coins could be shaved,” said the Shipbreaker. “This is intolerable, Drakasha. Bring scales from your ship, and I’ll have mine fetched up.”

“These coins are pristine,” said Kosta, gritting his teeth. “Every last one. I know you’ll check them, Captain, and I know what my life would be worth if you found any of them debased.”

“But—”

“Your deep concern for my welfare is noted, Shipbreaker,” said Drakasha. “But Lord Callas is entirely correct and I judge him sincere. He offers a thousand. Do you wish to better that?”

“Legs are open, old man,” said Leocanto. “Can you really get it up?”

“One thousand and ten,” said the Shipbreaker.

“Eleven
hundred
,” said Kosta. “Gods, I feel like I’m playing cards with my stablehands.”

“Eleven hundred,” wheezed the Shipbreaker, “and fifty.”

“Twelve hundred.”

“I have yet to even examine her timbers—”

“Then you should have hauled yourself across the bay faster. Twelve hundred.”

“Thirteen!”

“That’s the spirit,” said Kosta. “Pretend you can keep up with me. Fourteen hundred.”

“Fifteen,” said the Shipbreaker. “I warn you, Callas, if you push this price higher there will be consequences.”

“Poor old lardbucket, forced to make do with a merely ridiculous profit rather than an obscene one. Sixteen hundred.”

“Where did you
come
from, Callas?”

“Booked passage on an independent trader.”

“Which one?”

“None of your gods-damned business. I’m good for sixteen. What are—”

“Eighteen,”
hissed the Shipbreaker. “Are you running out of purses, you Lashani pretender?”

“Nineteen,” said Kosta, injecting a note of concern into his voice for the first time.

“Two thousand solari.”

Leocanto made a show of conferring briefly with Jerome. He looked down at his feet, muttered, “Fuck you, old man,” and gestured for Jerome to collect the satchels from the deck.

“To the Shipbreaker,” said Zamira, suppressing a huge smile. “For two thousand.”

“Ha!” The Shipbreaker’s face became contorted with triumph that looked nearly painful. “I could buy ten of you on a whim, whelp. If I ever felt the need to scabbard my cock in something foreign and useless.”

“Well, you won,” said Leocanto. “Congratulations. I’m ever so chagrined.”

“You should be,” said the Shipbreaker. “Since you’re suddenly standing on my ship. Now I’d like to hear what you’ll bid to keep me from having you spitted over a fire—”

“Shipbreaker,” said Drakasha, “until I see two thousand solari in my hands, like all
hells
is this your ship.”

“Ah,” said the old man. “A technicality.” He clapped his hands and his slaves sent the hoist-chair back to the barge, presumably to be loaded with gold.

“Captain Drakasha,” said Kosta, “thank you for your indulgence, but I know when it’s time to withdraw—”

“Del,” said Drakasha, “show Lord Callas and his man to one of our boats. Lord Callas, you’re welcome to stay for dinner in my cabin. After that we can … send you back where you belong.”

“Indebted to you, Captain.” Kosta bowed more deeply than strictly necessary, and then vanished through the entry port with Delmastro and Jerome.

“Gut the wet-eared little prick,” said the Shipbreaker, loudly. “Keep his money.”

“I’m content with yours,” said Zamira. “Besides—I’m rather taken with the idea of having a
genuine
Lashani baron convinced that he owes me his life.”

The Shipbreaker’s slaves transferred bag after bag of coins to the deck of the
Messenger
, silver and gold, until the agreed-upon price was heaped at Zamira’s feet. Gwillem would count it all at leisure, of course, but Zamira felt no anxiety about fraud or debasing. The sacks would contain exactly what they were supposed to, by the logic “Tavrin Callis” had espoused a few minutes earlier. The Shipbreaker kept a dozen well-equipped mercenaries at his fortified estate on the edge of town, but if he cheated a captain he’d have pirates after him in platoons, and his running days were a distant memory.

Drakasha left the Messenger in the hands of the Shipbreaker’s guards and slaves, and was back aboard the
Orchid
within half an hour, feeling the contentment that always came with seeing a prize sold off. One less complication to plan around—now her entire crew would be back on one hull, shares would be made, the ship’s purse substantially enriched. The injured ex-Messengers who hadn’t been with them for the
Kingfisher
sacking presented a slight problem, but to a man they’d opted for the temporary indignity of the scrub watch, if the alternative was to be left in Prodigal in ill health.

“Ravelle, Valora,” she said, finding the pair of them sitting in the undercastle shade, talking and grinning along with Del and a dozen crewfolk. “That went better than I expected.”

“Seven or eight hundred more than what we might have had otherwise,” said Gwillem with surprise.

“That much more fat to marble everyone’s cut,” said Valora.

“Until the bastard spends some money to check up on the independent traders,” said Del, one eyebrow raised in mingled admiration and disbelief. “When he discovers that nobody’s brought any Lashani noble anywhere near Prodigal recently—”

“Of course he’ll figure out what happened, sooner or later.” Kosta waved a hand dismissively. “That’s the beauty of it. That sort of uptight, self-loving, threat-making little tyrant … well, you can play ’em like a piece of music. Never in a thousand years would he run around letting anyone else know that you suckered him in broad daylight with such a simple trick. And with the profit margin he scrapes out of every ship he takes from you, there’s just no way in hell he’ll hit back with anything but fussy words.”

“He’s got no power to push, if pushing’s what comes to his mind,” said Zamira. “I call the deed well done. Doesn’t mean you can lounge around in those fancy clothes all evening, though. Get them stowed again.”

“Of course … Captain.”